I am raised from the African dust
No matter my culture,
No matter my creed.
I am a soldier
And in my hand is a weapon
They call a pen.

In dark young eyes
I see flames of hope,
In their broken hands
Are weapons of doom
Dangling over trembling boots.
How then we call it desperate,
Justifiably theorize violence
And then blame any authority?
If we’re really democratic,
We would mother and father our children
And fight our wars with progressive education.

The violent revolution preys on the uneducated,
The poor and the young.
All it has ever achieved
Was to infect the international society
With the same horrible pain.

We call for justice,
But democratic Africa,
Where are the Bushmen?
For what our children observe
They will do,
Maintaining the vicious circle
To start their own.

I can see an African Dream,
A dream of peace and prosperity,
A dream of manifestation and stability,
A place of tolerance and love,
A borderless paradise of Man.

Africa, dear Africa
Forget the man with the gun,
Forget the woman with the loose tongue.
If their energies were honest
We would have already won.

Heed my call and feed our children
All the free waters of knowledge
As the fruit of the African Dream.
That is the kind of soldier I am.